


Small Pleasures

by UV_Catastrophe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), M/M, POV Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-21
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:34:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22826452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UV_Catastrophe/pseuds/UV_Catastrophe
Summary: After a break-up, Crowley reflects on the enjoyment of having creamer in his coffee.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	Small Pleasures

Crowley liked creamer in his coffee. 

He had always wanted to be one of those really cool bastards who drank black coffee and genuinely enjoyed the bitter flavor scorching their taste buds into ash, but as many times as he had tried to drink it, he could never learn to like it. Now, as he poured what many considered ‘too much’ creamer into his morning coffee, he was profoundly grateful for this simple pleasure that he did not deny himself. This vanilla caramel swirl making the coffee in his well-used mug a tan hue. 

He closed the lid of the creamer, the click loud in the quiet flat. Placing it back in the fridge, he went to grab the milk, remembered it wasn’t needed anymore with a jolt, closed the door, and went to grab a spoon to mix his creamer in his coffee properly. 

The ability to give himself small pleasures was not a talent Crowley had been born with. He had spent more than a fair share of his life doing things purely because those around him had expected it from him. The black and the sunglasses had been him – he quite liked the look and the air of mystery – but the ‘bad boy’ attitude, the cigarettes, the sex.... well, those had been him too. He couldn’t blame others for his bad choices. But Crowley also couldn’t deny that those decisions had been made more to impress the people around him than to make himself happy. 

So creamer in his coffee was a pleasure. A pleasure all his own. And whether or not he deserved this small enjoyment from his life only briefly flitted across his thoughts. 

In a different time – two years ago, if Crowley wanted to get technical – that thought would have consumed him. Did he deserve the creamer? Was it okay to wake up in the morning and enjoy something? Was it okay to enjoy anything, when the world was the way that it was? 

Aziraphale had taught him it was okay. It was okay to get up in the morning, be grateful for the bright sunny day without cursing the likelihood of a sunburn. It was okay to make morning coffee and appreciate it. It was okay to eat breakfast, take a shower, dance to music, and laugh in the early dawn light. 

Crowley wasn’t sure that Aziraphale would agree with the statement now, considering what had happened, but he liked to think that somewhere – wherever Aziraphale was – a small part of him still wanted Crowley to be happy. 

He also hoped that that part of Aziraphale also still loved him, but that was a small pleasure that Crowley could not give himself. And he definitely didn’t deserve it. 

So instead, he placed his mixing spoon in the sink, sipped his coffee with a sigh of delight, and tried to remember how Aziraphale had taken his coffee. 

He knew there was milk involved, he had grabbed the milk carton for Aziraphale every day for a year, it was ingrained into his subconscious, but for the life of him he couldn’t picture the rest of the scene. Aziraphale would grab the milk from his hands, their fingers would touch sending a small jolt of electricity through Crowley, and then the love of his life would smile, or thank him, or give him a quick kiss, turn around to his cup...and then what? 

Crowley racked his brain as he slumped against the kitchen counter, then glared at the granite table top as if it would show to him the routine that Aziraphale had implemented upon it hundreds of times. 

It felt absolutely ridiculous to Crowley that he could not remember how much milk he put in, or if he added sugar after. Did he ever use the creamer himself? Crowley didn’t think so, but now he couldn’t be sure, and sighed in resignation to yet another memory that was slipping so quick. 

It had only been 5 months since Aziraphale had left him, yet there were things he couldn’t dredge up any longer that left him hollow. The coffee was only the latest in the string of Aziraphale that was unraveling quickly at Crowley’s feet. 

When Aziraphale had moved out, he had made sure that Crowley wouldn’t be there for it, so he was unprepared for just how thorough his love had been. While he had walked in St. James, crying and cussing in equal measure, knowing he couldn’t go back to the flat, he had imagined with wild abandon that Aziraphale would leave something behind. Anything at all, to show Crowley that their time together had been real, or worth it, or...something. 

But when he got home there had been nothing. Crowley scoured the flat, tore through drawers, cabinets, and shelves, longing to find a misplaced bookmark, or an abandoned cufflink that was missing its pair that Crowley could hold in his hand and bond with over a loss in their partners. He had even, in a rather dark moment, searched for a strand of blonde hair just to prove to himself that he hadn’t made up the last year and a half of his life. He had only found his own red locks, and had spent the rest of the night crying and cursing his bright hair. 

The week after that he had cuddled Aziraphale’s pillow for too many consecutive hours and it lost his smell. Within the month he could no longer recall with complete accuracy the smell at all, and had cried anew at that loss, as if he was losing Aziraphale for the first time all over again. 

Multiple months after he couldn’t quite remember the exact inflection that Aziraphale would enter through the door and cry out, “My dear, I’m home!”, but still knew that if he ever heard it again it would resume making his stomach flip, just as it had back then. 

And that was the really fucked up part, if Crowley had to point to one thing. It was remembering how it felt. Crowley couldn’t remember smells, or voice inflections, or fucking coffee preferences, but he could remember the way that Aziraphale’s smile after he handed him the milk in the morning made Crowley feel so loved that he was at risk of bursting. 

He could remember how, on the nights before Aziraphale had moved in, Crowley would be laying on the couch or his bed and catch the remnant smell of the man, and his stomach would flip. 

Crowley could remember feelings of euphoria, elation, love, contentment, desire. He could even remember how his heart would try to simultaneously speed up and slow down when Aziraphale kissed him at the door before leaving for the day. 

So why, when he remembered all those small pleasures, was he sitting in his kitchen, crying? 

And why hadn’t he thought to memorize the way Aziraphale took his coffee?

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very first fic, so please be kind, and I really hope you enjoy it! 🖤  
> Come talk to me on Tumblr! -> https://ultra-violetcatastrophe.tumblr.com/


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